Chronicles of The Unseen
by twirltheflag
Summary: When ever I play characters in plays that don't really have a background, I like writing their stories. And so, these are the stories from my time in Les Mis. I was a Nun, a factory worker, a prostitute/drukard, a begger and a revolutionary girl.Language.
1. Nun

Chronicles of the Unseen:

The Nun

I remember it quite clearly.

It was on the same night that my training had finished. After twenty-five years of being a novice and learning from the Bishop, I had finally become a full fledge nun at the age of thirty-two.

We were just about to have dinner when the Bishop spotted someone wandering the streets in the dark.

The Bishop invited him in, telling him that he could share our food and roof for the night, for he had been traveling and wandering for so long and he needed rest.

The man had messy black hair and only wore a leather coat over black and white rags that were too big for him. His only possession was a leather messenger bag.

I had the servant set the table with the silver plates and goblets that the church had provided for us. The plates had, only, day old bread and the goblets were filled with the cheapest wine. These were better than starving.

As the men set down to eat (women eat separate from the men in the monistary, so the servant and I did not join them), I noticed that the man was about to eat without sharing in our prayer of grace.

The servant looked sidelong at me and I knew what she was thinking; Is it really a good idea to let _this_ man stay here.

I, also, felt that this man was not trust worthy but, in the end, it was the Bishop's decision and the Bishop always knew best.

I portrayed this to her with my light smile, which, I sure, still had a hit of nervousness in it.

With that, we left the Bishop and our guest to their dinner.

….

I was forced awake by the sound of police whistles and a crowd, just outside the monistary.

I ran through the hallways, eventually meeting the servant along the way.

We both ran to the door of the monistary. The Bishop was already there. Our guest was on the coblestone with his bag at the feet of the Bishop. Two policemen stood over our guest, looking accusatory. A crowd of people gathered to make sport of the scene.

The policemen were telling a story that, apparently, our guest had told them.

He said that the Bishop had invited him to stay for dinner and, then, once dinner was done, the Bishop had given him the silver from which they ate and drank from and, then, sent him on his way.

The Bishop, the servant and I all knew that this was, of course, a lie and we all knew what had really happened; our guest had stolen the silver from us when we were asleep.

The servant was shaking her head, shaming the guest while I, merely, start to pray for his soul. He would need prayers in jail.

But then, something unexpected happened.

The Bishop said that our guest was telling the truth; that he had given him the silver as a gift.

But he said that he had forgotten something in his rush to get back on the road. He walked into the monistary and came back with the silver candle sticks. These were the best things that monistary had given us.

The servant and I looked at each other in shock. Was this the Bishop's way of forgiving him?

With that, the Bishop sent the policemen on their way and the crowd thinned to nothingness.

The Bishop told servant and I to return to bed and that he would take care of the man.

We were reluctant but we did as we were asked.

I walked back into the monistary I looked back at the two men. A Bishop and a Theif.

And heard the Bishops reasons for giving him the silver.

"You must use this precious silver to become and honest man."

…

Eight years later.

I was forty.

I had been transferred from the monistary and asked to work at the hospital in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

I hadn't even been there for a year when, one day, the Mayor of the town, Monsieur Madeleine, came in and asked us to take care of a woman who couldn't have, even, been thirty.

As I took the woman into my care, I noticed that the mayor looked, somewhat, familier to me. I just couldn't think of where I had seen him before.

I got her a bed and got her settled in and comfortable.

Suddenly, she started coughing into a handkerchief. Which was covered in blood.

I had seen this many times in my first year at the hospital.

Turberculosis.

No one survived it.

And, to add to it, she was delerious. She saw things that no one else could.

One day, not long after she had been checked in, the Mayor came by to visit her. Perhaps he knew that she didn't have much longer.

I went to her bed making sure that she was comfortable before the mayor came in.

I found her on the floor again, playing with the daughter she often spoke of but no one ever saw.

I smiled sadly as I, gently, to her hands and supported her back to her bed. I lifted her feet onto the matress and pulled the quilt over her before adjusting her pillow.

With that, I invited the mayor in.

Stood at the head of the bed, mopping up the woman's damp forehead while the Mayor tried to talk to the woman.

He promised her that he would take care of her daughter from now on.

The woman asked him to tell her daughter that her mother would see her when she wakes up.

With that, the woman died with a on her face.

I began saying a prayer for the dearly departed and for the Mayor and new guardian to this poor soul's daughter.

But during my prayers I heard something disturbing.

A new voice had entered the room and started threatening the Mayor, for who he had called Valjean.

According to the mayor, this accusing man was Javert, the head of the police department.

The Mayor starting pleading with Javert. He said that he need just three days. In those three days, he would find a safe place for the woman's daughter and, then, the Mayor would return to Javert.

Javert would have none of it, saying that 'men like him' couldn't change.

By now, I had completely halted my prayers and started in shock and intrigue as the Mayor and the Police chief started circling each other, threatening one another.

Finally, the confrontation climaxed.

And in those moments of great tension, I, suddenly, recongnized the Mayor.

Eight years ago, the Mayor stole the silver from my monistary. And, just like the Bishop told him to do, he used it to become and honest man.

Suddenly, the Mayor grabbed a chair and used it to keep Javert away from him.

I ran from the room, fearing what fight would break out.


	2. Factory Worker

Chronicles of the Unseen:

Factory Worker

Finally.

Another day of work over.

At the end of the day, even though it was nightmarish work, it put food on the table.

But that day ended quiet interestingly.

Of course, the foreman was acting as he usually did; horny as a toad. He weaved through us workers, paying close attention to the women. He did everything from just looking them up and down to rubbing his greasy hands down their backs.

There was absolutely nothing we could do to stop him; the Mayor and Boss trusted this lecherous foreman. It was our word against the Foreman's. And all the girls here had the same disadvantage; the Foreman had managed to seduce all of us into bed. If calling us whores meant keeping his job, he wouldn't hesitate. And we would all loose our jobs.

The only woman who hadn't let herself be persuaded to bed was Fantine. She never talked to any of us and she always acted like she was better than us. Everyone hated her. But that wasn't enough to get her fired.

Suddenly, one day, Madame Victurnien caught Fantine with a letter. She hated her just as much as the rest of us did and decided to taunt her by stealing the letter and reading it aloud to all of us.

"Dear Fantine,

You must send us more money; your child needs a doctor. There's no time to loose!"

The moment we all heard the word 'daughter' we started chattering an gossiping.

I had been working at the factory for the same amount of time that Fantine had been working there. She had never married. And yet, she had a daughter.

We were all thinking the same things; 'slut', 'whore', and 'bitch'.

She tried to make it sound like we had no room to talk.

"Is there anyone here who can swear she has nothing loose? She has nothing to hide."

None of us were on her side. And she knew it. So, she started a fight.

Soon enough, the Mayor and the Foreman came out and broke up the fight and told us, the on looking crowd, to settle down.

The Mayor told the Foreman to resolve the problem but to be patient about it. With that, he left.

And Madame didn't hesitate to throw Fantine to the dogs. She told the Foreman about the daughter that Fantine had to pay for and that, obviously, in order to make the money she doesn't make at the factory, she has to make from selling her body.

Fantine didn't even try to deny having a daughter. She admitted everything, saying that the child's father left them flat broke.

None of us believed her.

We all jumped at the chance to get her fired. We all yelled at the Foreman about how she would ruin our reputations if she stayed at the factory.

The Foreman accused her of being a slut and we all agreed.

With that, she was thrown out. And we walked home. We couldn't care less about what happened to Fantine.

To us, it was one less stuck up problem.


	3. Prostitute

Chronicles of the Unseen:

Prostitute

Night fell.

I strutted towards the docks with all the confidence I had.

I wore knee-high, brown leather boots and green and yellow bloomer underpants. I wore a purple and white stripped skirt over the undergarments and a light purple under tank with lace straps. My blonde hair was tied back in a braid and a huge pink hat adorned my head. A green and yellow feathered boa was wrapped around my arms.

The garments of a prostitute.

As I reached a group of sailors and other men, I found a crate. I placed my foot on top of the crate, pulled my skirt up to the thigh, showing of the undergarments and tugged my boots up. I did the same with the other leg before returning to an alluring, confident stance.

I saw a very attractive man coming my way.

What luck.

I played up the allure as he drew closer.

He walked right past me and grabbed two other prostitutes, one in orange and one in pink. They all walked off somewhere to do their business.

I crossed my arms in rejection.

Then I looked around.

A man in pink pants, a purple coat and black, leather boots was stomping towards me.

My pimp.

This was not going to be good.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asked me.

"It's not my fault."

"Then whose is it? Everyone is making money, except for you, you slut."

"Not yet. Just wait and see."

"You'd better come up with something. Otherwise, tonight is going to be a long night for the both of us.'

With that, he marched away.

I wasn't as afraid of him in public as I was when we were alone. That's why I could talk back to him. Of course, if I didn't make any money, I would pay for the back talking later.

A few minutes went by and still, no one wanted a good time.

I started fingering my braid our of a nervous and frustrated habit.

And suddenly, I got an idea.

I released my hair from the braid and took off my hat, flinging my hair around to get attention.

But everyone was focusing on the new recruit; some old woman who had sold her hair to save her kid.

I pouted as I stomped away from the docks.

Whenever the docks failed, the Inn was the place to go.

….

That next part is a bit fuzzy.

Somehow, somewhere, I had lost track of my boa and my hate. My hair was still down in a wavy mess.

I was quite drunk when I decided to adjust my boots for the one- hundereth time that night, when I saw a pair of boots walk past my.

I looked up and found a black hair man in a nice vest.

We made brief eye contact before wrapping our arms around one another and hanging on each other.

I don't quiet remember what we talked about but everything he said made him sound like the smartest man I'd ever met.

Sometime later, we had, the both of us, gotten even more drunk. I held my mug in the same hand that was wrapped around this smart man's shoulders, so my mug was right next to his face. Apparently, he couldn't resist; he pointed to something to distract me and , when I was distracted, he grabbed my mug and gulped down the alcohol in it. This made me take my arm from around his shoulders and smack him against the chest, trying to get him to stop. This entertained him, for he just held my waist tighter and started leaning towards me, puckering his lips at me. I leaned away from him, disgusted and ripped his arm from around my waist.

We were both peeved for about a minute and, then, he offered me some of his alcohol.

That was enough to get me sweet on him again. I wrapped both my arms around my waist, hugging him and laying my head on his shoulder.

We were like this when the Inn Keepper came by and told us to get a room.

We decided to take his advice.

…

'What am I gonna do?'

It was about sunset when I woke up in the bed room we got at the Inn.

I was so hungover and tired that I had slept the whole day. But when I woke up, the man was gone.

He didn't have any idea that I was a prostitute so I didn't get any money. And when that happens, my pimp gets really angry. He had forced me to live with him because he was particularly 'fond' of my 'personality'. But that never stopped him from stricking me when he thought it was necessary.

I just hopped that, by the time I got home, he would be out with the other girls. I could wash up a bit and go out for money again and he wouldn't have to know about my mistake at the Inn.

But of course, luck was not with me.

I arrived at our little shack of a room. The pimp was at the table, counting coins that other girls had gathered. The atmosphere was still with the vexed aura that was radiating off of him.

The moment I saw him, I froze. Then, I told myself to act like nothing was wrong. Act like I couldn't find anyone. He would still hurt me, but not as badly as he would hurt me if I found out I gave away a freebee.

I started to, slowly, walk behind his sitting figure, trying to make my way to the washroom before anything could be said.

I was about three steps away from the table when I heard him stand up from his chair.

I started rushing towards the washroom, desperate to get away. But he was faster than I was; he caught right up and stood in my way.

I looked at the floor, awkwardly rubbing my arm, not wanting to make eye contact with him.

Suddenly, I felt his cold fingers under my chin, making my fear escalate. He raised my face, forcing me to look into his burning eyes.

"Where have you been?"

There was no point in lying; he always knew when I was lying and, whenever I lied, it got me in even more trouble. I swallowed before I, meekly, said, "The Inn."

He lowered his hand from my chin and asked, "So where's the money?"

"… He left without giving me any…"

He started pacing away from me, showing that he was annoyed. "Didn't you tell him that you needed be paid for your services?"

"Well…. We were… we were both quiet drunk….. and I… forgot to mention….."

He was silent for a moment, which was never a good sign. Then, he said, "Then you can forget about visiting your sister."

That cut me right to the bone. "But I need to! She's dying! I need to see her!"

"You will go out and you will sell your body and you will not see you sister until I'm satisfied with the amount that you bring in." He sat down at the table and started counting again, suggesting that the conversation was over.

In those brief moments, my fear turned to hatred and , before I could stop myself, I took a strong stance and yelled, "No! I'm seeing my sister and you can't tell me otherwise!"

He froze, glaring at me. His hand was so shaky from fury that he knocked over an entire pile of coins.

He slowly pushed himself up and walked towards me.

Fear shocked through me with every step he took but I held my stance and kept my face straight.

He was towering over me again.

He, slowly, raised his open hand and pulled it back.

My eyes went wide with fear but, before I could do anything, he slammed his hand into my cheek.

The impact made me turn away from him. My hair whipped around to the side of my face, creating a curtain between our eyes. I held my throbbing cheeks and did my best to hold back the tears.

The clock struck 7:00.

Suddenly, I felt his boney fingers run through my hair, making me snap my eyes shut in disgust.

I felt him leaning closure to me.

He hissed into my ear, "I'll deal with you later."

With that, he tossed my hair aside, swept all of the coins into his purse and hid the purse in his usual hiding place. He grabbed his coat and marched out, locking the door behind him so that I couldn't get out.

I leaned against the wall and lowered myself to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest as I cried.

My sister was dying and I couldn't be there for her.

I wasn't even twenty-five. And yet, to me, my life was over.

I was in hell.


End file.
